Farewell To The East End

was twenty-seven when he entered Police Training College, and it was the best thing he could have done. He left home, leaving his mother fussing and worrying and his father criticising, and lived in the police hostel, where there were other young men who had been through the war. The training was harder than he could ever have imagined. There were hours of lectures on every aspect of crime, including assault, larceny, forgery, bribery, traffic offences, drink driving, rape, sodomy, buggery and much, much more. He had to be familiar with the Betting and Gambling Act, the Licensing Act and the Prostitution Act, to mention but a few. His head was spinning as he tried to take it all in. But an indifferent schoolboy who didn’t find his lessons important turned into a police cadet who found everything meaningful, and he passed top of the examination. He then had two years on the beat as a probationer, during which time he was always with another constable, assigned to a section or a division. He found life on the streets even more fascinating than the college. It was a tough period, but he revelled in the challenge and determined to become a sergeant and inspector, with his ultimate sights set on chief inspector.
    His parents were delighted. His father commented, with a chortle, that he not only had a steady job, but also a good pension. His mother started getting broody, and coyly mentioned that a ‘nice girl’ was what he needed.
    But girls were as big a failure for him as all the dead-end jobs he had undertaken. He was quiet and rather shy and always conscious of the scar on his face. ‘No girl will want me,’ he thought. Also, a few unsatisfactory affairs had convinced him that girls were basically silly and self-obsessed. He wasn’t interested in their preoccupations, and they weren’t interested in the things that absorbed him. A few of the policewomen seemed interesting, but they were either married or going steady with someone else. He wanted a girl who could get her mind off her fingernails or her hair. One girl said to him archly, ‘Do you like the way I have plucked my eyebrows?’ He was aghast. Eyebrows? He had never noticed them. The girl was offended and provoked a quarrel. He wasn’t really cross or disappointed. The incident confirmed in his mind that girls were a bit empty, and a man couldn’t expect anything else.
    That was until he saw Chummy staggering along the quayside. He had met her a few times before and he recalled with amusement the day she had propelled her bicycle into him and knocked him over, knocking herself out at the same time. She was a big, strong girl, but, as she weaved her way uncertainly towards the three men standing at the dock gates, he could see she hardly had the strength to carry her bag. His protective instincts were aroused. He had heard the extraordinary, garbled story from the nightwatchman about her going to see a woman on a boat and climbing the rope ladder, and he hadn’t known what to make of it. At the time he knew nothing of a baby being born, nor of the perilous circumstances of the birth. He just thought, this is a girl who is different, whose main preoccupation is not her eyebrows or her fingernails, and after he had put her in a taxi, he determined to see her again.

    His first visit left the convent in a flurry of excitement. Even the sisters were twittering with interest. It was the last thing anyone had expected. The evening of Chummy’s first date was the occasion for unsolicited advice and useless assistance. First, what should she wear? She produced a few clothes from her wardrobe, none of them very attractive.
    ‘You must have something new.’
    ‘But what?’
    We all borrowed and swapped each other’s clothes, but nothing that we wore fitted Chummy, so in the end we sighed hopelessly and loaned her a pretty scarf. She was also in a dither over what she should talk about.
    ‘I’m no good with boys. I have never been dated by a boy before. What am I going to say?’
    ‘Look, don’t be daft. He’s not a boy, he’s a grown man, and he wouldn’t have asked you out if he hadn’t any reason to think you are interesting.’
    ‘Oh lawks! This is going to be a disaster, I know it. What if I fall over, or say something bally silly? My mater says you can’t take me anywhere.’
    ‘Well, your mater’s not taking you out, is she? Forget “mater”. Think of David.’
    The doorbell rang, and Chummy fell over the doormat, crashing into the